


Rogue Choices

by ardentmuse



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Interactive Fiction, Reader-Interactive, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentmuse/pseuds/ardentmuse
Summary: Rogue Choices is an interactive fic in which you attempt your final mission before receiving full field agent status. You are tasked with taking down a money-laundering ring based out of Cyprus, run by a sexy and mysterious Russian mobster. Which partner you take, and which choices you make, are up to you. But no matter what, you’ll find action, suspense, and love along the way.
Relationships: Gary "Eggsy" Unwin/Reader, Harry Hart | Galahad/Reader, Merlin (Kingsman)/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Rogue Choices

Two strong raps on the door grant you a gentle, “Come in.”

As you turn the handle and enter, the smell of old books and polished wood fills your nostrils. Arthur’s office is a proper executive space. Shelves are lined with old tombs that must have been passed down for generations. The rich, plush Persian rug is worm upon the edges from years of use, but still draws the eye with its vibrant reds and subtle blues. Two large and striking leather wingbacks rest before a sturdy walnut desk, at which sits a patient Arthur, who doesn’t even bother to lift his gaze from the files before him as he hears you enter.

“Agent Kay, please take a seat.”

You do as you are bid, leaning back into the worn leather to take in the countenance of you boss. He seems tired, the grey hair of his eyebrows coming together as he squints at the documents before him. But even with the slight bags under his eyes, he is still the image of a proper gentleman. His collar is expertly pressed and his turtle shell glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, just as you imagine Churchill’s might have.

After a few moments, he shuffles the papers aside and levels his eyes with yours.

“It seems you received the memo that I needed to see you?”

You laugh, “Your assistant nearly tackled me as I left lunch.”

“Eager kid, that one. He’ll make a good agent someday, too,” he muses, and then with a wry smile adds, “Much like you.”

“I’m already an agent, Arthur.”

“But mayhaps a good one given time,” he says, his eyebrows rising ever so slightly in challenge.

You haven’t been a secret agent long, having earned the title only a few months prior. The selection process to join the Kingsman was grueling to say the least, but you had been Arthur’s hand picked candidate. Only upon your recruitment did you understand just how much Arthur, a second father to you in so many ways, had primed you from your youth for this very role you doesn’t even know existed.

But nothing, not even Arthur, could have prepared you for the stress of being a Kingsman agent out in the field. Taking down the world’s most harrowing criminals, dismantling sex trafficking rings and stopping terrorist attacks takes a toll on the mind and body. Death is constantly right beside you, a single word or a single misstep enough to reveal your identity and get you killed. The work of Kingsman is highly classified, incredibly dangerous, and outside the bounds of traditional justice. You are a ghost, a guardian angel just outside the realm of men, leaving only vague notions of what could have been: a newspaper headline, a five o’clock story on Radio 4, a traffic jam or a flight delay. Ignorance is bliss as they say, but you now know the dark underbelly, the secret of which is the source of bliss for so many.

You sigh and hold your hand against your thigh to stop yourself from fidgeting. The shoulders on your suit, the well-fitted tweed of our Kingsman uniform, seem to tighten as Arthur continues to stare at you, waiting for your protest.

“What are you getting at?”

Arthur laughs as he pivots in his chair and presses on the spine of a book behind his desk. Instantly, the two shelves pull forward and slide to the sides, revealing an entire wall of flat screens and holograms projecting outward. You can’t make out all the details but the lower corner contains a building schematic and the top right shows the animated, scowling face of whom you can only assume is your organization’s latest target.

“Andrej Jankovic. Former Russian operative now based in Cyprus, leading what we’ve learned is the largest money laundering ring in the world. We’ve been tracking him for months, but,” he stops talking to focus on the movement of his fingers, swiping away spreadsheets to pull up live surveillance footage of the target, “As you can see, he covers his tracks very well.”

You watch on the screen as the man sips coffee in a small café. Four different cell phones lay out before him, concealed under the newspaper through which he flips lazily as he takes in the sea just outside the window. He is younger than you expect for such high crimes, with not a wrinkle in sight upon his face. His dark hair is long and flung haphazardly to one side but his facial hair in contrast is shaven with precision, just outlining his harsh jawline. He is striking in that brooding sort of way, long Roman nose and chiseled muscles. You might consider him handsome in a different life where your mind isn’t trained to notice the harshness of his brow or how quickly his eyes narrow with disdain each time someone new enters his vision.

“He is certainly… something,”

“Killed three people just yesterday for using checks,” Arthur throws your way as if that is something to marvel.

You swallow, still not comfortable with just how common death is in your new line of work.

“He’s ruthless and calculating, incredibly thorough and uncommonly intelligent. We’re never going to catch him with paper trails alone. There won’t be any. And simply taking him out leaves the whole rest of the corrupt network up and running. We need names.” Arthur swivels in his chair so he is facing you once again, resting his elbows upon the wood of his desk with a thud. “And I think you can get them.” 

“Wait, really? You’re trusting me with this?”

You feel your jaw go slack. Biggest money launderer in the world, and Arthur thinks you can handle it? These past few months have felt like a probationary period, working alongside other agents, cleaning up their messes and assisting in communications and research. Your field time has been limited to sitting in corners of crowded rooms, observing more senior agents doing the hard work.

Arthur raps his fingers against the stack of papers before him.

“I think he’ll take kindly to you. If our intelligence is correct, he’ll be most susceptible to your…”

“Charm?” you insert.

“At least more than that of any other agent,” Arthur confirms. “Now don’t misunderstand me. It is not my intention to send you out alone. You will need a partner. Consider this your last test before I set you loose, Kay.”

Arthur picks up papers before him, writes quickly on a post-it that he places on the top of the stack, and then thrusts his arms forward to you. 

“You have until tomorrow night to select a partner and review this research material. The jet leaves Friday.”

He doesn’t have to dismiss you with words. The way he pivots his body back to the screens behind him is signal enough that your questions will only be addressed after you thoroughly review the case.

And so you stand and make your way back into the labyrinth of the Kingsman manor to begin to wrap your mind around your new mission. 

Just as the door closes behind you, a voice calls almost directly into your ear. 

“Our mighty leading givin’ you a hard time, there, newbie?”

With a shocked puff of breath, you pivot on your heels to see the broad chest and shoulders of Eggsy just inches from your face. He is reclining casually against the doorframe, his arms crossing over his chest matching the cross of his ankles, all casual and cool. The cheeky grin upon his face, showing you those pristinely white teeth, lets you know your startled response is exactly what he was hoping to see.

“You’re never as alone as you think you are, my love,” he purrs with a rub of his palm into your shoulder, stilling the jump of your body at his appearance. “Rule number one of this spy gig.”

His deft hands make calculated movement against your collarbone, each brush bringing just the tip of his fingers against your pulse point, as though trying to discreetly test how much his proximity is impacting you. Your body goes stiff at the sensation, not in fear or discomfort, but in confusion. Eggsy smiles that disarming smile of his. He leans forward, his mouth finding a place beside your ear.

“You know, I think I still have quite a bit to teach you.”

The feel of his breath combined with the gentle graze of his nails against your throat make your breath hitch, goosebumps running down your chest. You hate how clear your responses are to these sorts of flirtations and so you divert your gaze to the place where the tips of his oxfords are pressed against your shoes.

At your lack of response, Eggsy drums his fingers across your shoulder, tickling you. You laugh and pull back slightly, enough to actually take in his features: his jaw, sharp and square and his skin kissed with just a tint of sun, his blue eyes glowing with humor behind his glasses. And with that last realization, you sigh. He is right. You are never as alone as you think, especially at Kingsman, with those silly glasses recording almost every interaction for Merlin or whomever to review at their convenience. 

“You know, it seems everyone thinks I still have much to learn.”

Eggsy gives you a quick slap on the back, pulling his body fully from yours.

“That’s what big boss man is on you about?” he says as he begins walking down the hall, leading you out of the offices spaces and back towards the communal agent quarters. “Ill-timed joke, then. My bad, love.”

As you turn the corner into the grand stairway, you notice the chasm between your bodies. Eggsy is two steps in front and his feet light, tossing a look back towards you as he continues his talking, as if he wasn’t just holding his body only inches for your own, running his calloused fingers across the sensitive flesh of your neck and raising your blood pressure, not just giving you dazzling smiles and teasing your earlobes with his hushed breaths. That is Eggsy, flirtation and friendship, on and off, hot and cold, and always just enough honesty in his eyes in those moments to make you question which is the act.

After a long walk through parlors and the kitchens, laughing about your dogs and the antics that came out of the latest team meeting, you find yourself standing in front of the control room with the majority of your tension about your mission lost somewhere in the depths of your brain.

“Now this is where I leave you,” Eggsy says.

You turn with a huff to your friend.

“Why didn’t you tell me Merlin sent you to find me?”

The corner of Eggsy’s mouth turned upward in that too-seductive half-smile he had perfected somewhere between you first meeting him and right now,

“You’re much more fun when you aren’t stressing about work.” His eyes scanned from your body, slow and intentional, until his gaze came to rest on your lips, now just slightly parted from his clearly heated evaluation. He smiled at your response. “Much more fun.”

You shake your head at him, always the tease.

“You really believe I would have had you laughing after Arthur had you down if your mind had also been churning on what Mr. Stoic McSeriousface wanted with you?”

You pout. Eggsy knows of your friendship with Merlin, the tech head for your organization. You know he is just trying to get a stir out of you.

But before you can answer, Eggsy moves forward. You step back and find the door pressing against your back. 

“You’re going to be the death of me with that pout, you know.”

After a silent beat between you, the air growing thicker as you stare each other down, Eggsy leans forward, raising his hand the way he sometimes does to brush stray hairs from your face. But instead, his hand moves beyond your shoulder, making contact with the wood of the door. He knocks hard and heavy.

“Enjoy being bored to death, peaches,” he whispers to you before slinking down the hall.

Eggsy turns the corner just as Merlin opens the door to his workspace. You take note of his expression as he looks down the hall. It really is stoic, but when his face sets upon you, it immediately changes into something soft and inviting, encouraging even.

“Kay, glad you’re here.” He opens the door a little wider and then continues, “Come in.” 

“Good afternoon, Merlin,” you say as you move into the tech space, Merlin following closely behind.

You throw yourself down on the vintage Eames lounge chair that sits in the corner of the room, placing your stack of papers on the floor as you allow yourself the joy of reclining deeply into the headrest.

Merlin pats the footrest as he passes by, inviting you to relax. He moves towards his desk, computer, and all the hundreds of gadgets that are organized upon the shelves beside.

“So, what do you have for me?” you ask as you follow through on Merlin’s request to fully recline yourself. “Details on Jankovic?”

“Yes, and no,” he says, not meeting your eyes. He takes a seat and begins typing away.

The rhythmic ping of keys give you a moment to truly observe the man before you. Merlin is a striking, almost imposing, figure in appearance. He is tall and lithe, in complete control of each moment, in a way that conveyed a refined elegance to some and a rigid intent to others. His face is a masculine stone, like a sculpture of a Roman general, piercing in its seriousness. But he brings life to the features that you love: soft hazel eyes, busy dexterous hands, and a smooth Scottish accent that makes even the sweetest words from his mouth sound husky.

After a moment, he continues on, “Jankovic has a well-trained team and multi-layered cyber systems. His security, virtual and physical, is nearly impenetrable. I do believe I have found a few exploitable flaws, almost all of which require work on the ground to hijack. If we don’t go that route, I have managed to mirror the controls for the security system at the hotel he owns in Limassol, so I will be able to be of assistance once you land.”

You stand and move beside his desk. He has months of logs, meticulously organized and color-coded and tabulated, certain sections highlighted in red, denoting times of lower security or routine system upgrades. His work, just like him, is precise and detailed.

You lean down over his shoulder to take in the schematic of the hotel, several floors of suites and an entire rooftop entertaining space. Your mind conjures images of the ocean and soft sand beaches that are visible just below, the salt air and the setting sun filling your slowly numbing senses as you sip on your second cocktail and a stunningly handsome man runs his hands down your spine to the soft of your back.

But the strong scent of cedarwood and bergamot that you know to be Merlin bring you back to the present. Or maybe it aids in the fantasy. When he reaches over to rest his hand on your back, pushing you forward slightly to watch the tiny dots he is pointing at with his other hand, you know where your mind got those ideas in the first place.

“I’ve discovered some patterns here that I think we can exploit, unless of course you decide making your presence known to the target is a better option.”

His fingers never leave your back as he speaks.

“Stealth or charisma,” you muse, “Just like a video game.”

“If so, your video games are quite limited,” he laughs. His fingers slide across your back as he rolls his chair to the other side of the room. You feel the absence most acutely.

“I’d hope there’d at least be some intelligence or combat in these skill trees of yours.”

His fingers run over the lock in the shelving. You hear a click and then the draw opens to reveal a pristine case containing three weapons you have yet to see, each encased in foam and glass like priceless works of art.

“Perhaps some lock-picking?” he turns and offered you a smile.

“I’ve definitely maxed out my luck, at least,” you say with a tilt to the draw of weapons, each more beautiful than the next.

“And enchantment, if I may be so bold,” his words are to the drawer of weapons and not your face, but your mind fills in his devastating lip bite and the thought has you melting and feeling the shyness creep over you.

The silence hangs between you two as Merlin flicks the lock on each case.

Finally with a deep breath, he says, “My latest prototypes. You’ll need all the protection you can get on this one, Kay, so take your pick.”

“Can’t I take all of them?”

Merlin turns and shots you a look so deadly, you feel the air leave your lungs.

“And risk you losing all my hard work? Never.”

His eyes are piercing yours, wearing you down, but you try your best to hold your ground.

“I’m quite trustworthy, Hamish,” you say with a gentle bit of your lip.

“First names, now? You jest, my dear,” he says with a narrowing of his eyes that let you know he likes the words more than he wants to admit. “Now pick.”

You feel the weight of the weapon in your hand, bouncing it a little to get comfortable.

“This one. I like this one,” you say finally.

Merlin shuts the drawers and turns to you. “And it likes you, too, Kay. Very fitting.”

You can’t help but smile at his praise. Eggsy is wrong, you know. Merlin isn’t so much serious as he is careful about his work. You enjoy the lightness he shares with you, even if it is intercut with professional talk.

“Thank you, Merlin,” you say as you holster the weapon and grab your papers.

“You’re welcome.” Merlin’s head already back in his computer and typing away.

As you reach for the door, he calls you once more.

“And Kay?”

You turn to offer him your full attention and are struck by how serious he looks, the hard lines of his face all completely turned to you and his chin dipped in a soft reverence that you hope is reserved for you alone. His voice takes on that husky quality as he breathes out the next words.

“I know you’re a little overwhelmed right now, but you are among us for a reason. You’re a capable agent, Kay. Please don’t forget that.”

For a man who often shrugs off sentimentality, he manages to find just the right words to build you up and make you smile. You feel a tiny wave of pleasure course through you, easing a bit of the weight from your shoulders.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. With a curt nod, the sweetness of the moment lost, he returns his eyes to the screens beside him.

You sit in the study, the fire roaring beside you, as you pour through each meticulous document that Arthur gave you. Just skimming these papers alone is going to take you all the way to your flight and then some, and that doesn’t include the time you need to devise a plan, select a partner, and prep for execution. But none of those other things can happen until you wrap your mind fully around your mission. And if that means sitting here well into the morning, transcribing and memorizing and organizing, then that is what you are going to do.

You hear the clink of porcelain upon the table beside you. A mug of tea is now perched among your discarded notes, the steam cloud in the lamplight.

“Thought a pick-me-up might be in order,” Harry, your mentor and fellow agent, says above you as he moves to the other side of the room, carrying his own mug and his own papers, though his take the form of the news, several morning editions stacked together, a few in languages in which you weren’t aware Harry had proficiency.

With the flick of his wrists, Harry opens the top paper, but unlike his usual routine of reading through the headlines and major political scandals, Harry turns towards the back, folds the paper in half, and pulls out a pen from his jacket pocket.

You take a long sip of the tea he provided you, and are pleased to discover it isn’t his usual nighttime blend but a proper English brew, one that will provide you enough caffeine to get your through this work. If Harry is anything, it certainly is thoughtful.

You work in silence for fifteen minutes or so, Harry’s long legs elegantly crossed as he relaxes himself against the couch. He drums the end of the pen upon the tuffs of the Chesterfield. You can’t help but think about how, in the past six months, you had already fallen into a pleasant routine with these men you called your colleagues. Lunch with Eggsy, briefings and shooting practice with Merlin, and long nights, just like tonight, sitting beside Harry and working in companionable silence. With Harry, words are rarely needed. He is a man whose company creates an aura of calm that penetrates even the most intense of moments. The few missions on which you have accompanied him were smooth, efficient endeavors; they left you feeling confident and poised even by comparison to arguably the most poised man you have ever met.

“Attractive, eight letters, third letter is most likely a ‘g’,” Harry asks into the air.

You lift your head from a giant list of innocuously named shell corporations to consider his question.

Engaging? Magnetic?

“Hmmm,” he muses, scribbling upon the paper, “Thank you, darling.”

You only get a few more minutes of silence before he is piping up again.

“Unstable, six letters, last letter ‘y’.”

Wobbly? Flimsy? Shifty?

“Perfect,” Harry whispers over his swift pen strokes. The roar of the fire by now was dying down, the pleasant crackle of embers scenting the room in hickory and smoke. You find yourself fighting the exhaustion that is coming over your body at the sheer comfort of your company and the ambiance the room provides.

Not thirty seconds pass by before Harry is calling your way once more.

“To proceed, four let-“

“Harry, are you trying to distract me from my work or is this crossword collaborative?”

Harry folds the paper shut and places it firm upon his lap. His eyes shift upward slowly, from your feet to your eyes, pausing upon the stack of papers spread out around you on all sides before he finds his way to your face. Harry’s lips curl into a soft smile, one that is made all the more precious by the way the fire’s reflection upon his face. He rubs at the bridge of his nose as he debates his words.

“I wouldn’t call it distracting as much as helping,” he finally decides, picking up the paper as he takes soft steps towards you.

Soft, that is the best word to describe Harry. Gentleness and patience and softness are what you associated with him most. Sure, you have seen his skills, watched him turn into a ruthless hit-man as the situation called for it, powerful and strong and confident. But the instant the bodies laid still before you, Harry’s steps grew light again. As he reached out his hand in serenity, kindly lifting you to your feet, brushing debris from your hair and asking in a whisper if you are safe.

“I’m not so sure how not doing my work is going to help me do my work,” you say as Harry pulls the footstool out beside you to sit. His back is perfectly straight despite the lack of support and you wonder if you body would ever be trained with the same precision as the seasoned agents you so admire.

“You’re thinking too much,” he says. He sits the newspaper down on top of your papers, covering up all your notes and drawing your focus to the absence of notes on his actual page. Nothing exists in the boxes, only in the margins and you notice how peculiar it appears.

“See, darling, this is you right now, taking each individual note and trying to assess it alone. If I went bullet by bullet through this crossword puzzle trying to figure out what it meant by every single word clue or question mark, I would have half the puzzle wrong.”

Harry is leaning over the newspaper now, his head awfully close to your own. The fluff of his brown curls are brushing lightly against your forehead. Despite the tickling, you don’t pull away.

Harry’s voice is low, requiring you to lean in. He wants this proximity. For what purpose, you don’t let you mind assume.

“Some clues like this one,” he says, pointing to 20-across ‘Author Silverstein,’ “Are easy to solve without context.” His hand moves to write the first bit within the puzzle: ‘shel.’

“But others,” he moves his pen to point at 4-down, ‘To proceed,’ and the three words he has written beside it: sail, toil, and till. Somehow his brain did the puzzling work of realizing long ago that the ‘l’ in ‘shel’ was the necessary fourth letter. “ Others require much more context.”

“And even still, some may seem to require context,” he says, pointing to the clue, ‘display of glee,’ which had nothing scribbled beside, “But actually require none at all, just experience and foresight.” And with that note, he moves quickly to the tiny space to which the clue corresponds and without checking anything else, writes ‘jig’ in large, bold, capital letters.

“Now how do you—“ you went to protest, but Harry interrupted you.

“Because it’s always jig. I know it could be ‘hah’ or ‘lol’ but it isn’t. It is always jig. There aren’t many other ways to get ‘j’s into the puzzle. Do a few crosswords and you don’t even have to finish reading the clue. That and emu. And Nave. V’s are tricky buggers, too.”

You sigh, “But I don’t have the experience to see the ‘j’ and the ‘v’ in our spy work yet. I just see the Silversteins and the capitals of France and the 2017 Best Picture winner.”

Harry’s hand reaches out to rub against your knuckles, comforting and supportive, “But, darling, you do. Every puzzle has a theme. Every target has his preferences. Find what is distinctive, what is rare. Trust your gut to see what doesn’t fit, what needs to be there because it can’t exist any other way. “

Harry lifts up the newspaper, revealing your workspace once again. He links his fingers with yours as he allows his free hand to run along the stack of papers before you.

“Scan,” he says, slow and emphatically. He lifts the stack like a book and flicks, one page each second with a satisfying click and swipe.

The first few pages go by with a blur. By the tenth, you are pulling out only a handful of words, though those words seem to make a story anyway: Ancoria, Konstantinos, $9,999, Ltd.

“Stop!” you say upon the sixtieth page or so. Harry’s hand grips yours a little tighter, sending a warm jolt down your spine. You see him smile out of the corner of your eyes at your apparent discovery.

“What do you see?” he asks, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in. The rough wool of his jacket brushing against your bare arm is a pleasant contrast to the smooth skin of his palm that still pressed firmly into your own.

You use your free hand to point to the third transaction line.

“All the previous shell companies had Greece mythology names. Scylla, Nyx, Calliope. But this one is Roman: Decima. At least I think it is,” you bit your lip a little realizing this may be a stupid thing to call out, “But even if it isn’t, it doesn’t seem right. This also seems to be the only shell company for which we have names of the board of directors.”

Harry takes his pen and circles Decima with three big spins. He underlines each of the names listed on the board below and pulls the paper out of the stack and up to the top.

He draws his hands away from yours to close the pen and collect your stack together once more. He plops the newly assembled stack before you and makes to leave you. But as he stands with one knee against the footrest upon which he had been sitting, he hovers his body over you, his proximity doing little to help with the already intense heat of your skin from the fire. He leans forward and grazes his lips gently upon your forehead. As he pulls away, his hand finds your chin and he meets your gaze.

“That’s my girl,” he says with a smile before turning and walking swiftly out of the room, his newspaper abandoned to your pile.

With a renewed vigor, you dive deep into the papers, determined to see the odd inconsistencies that might provide context for the more common practices. As you continue to sip on your tea, you notice the cup had refilled and rewarmed itself. You never heard Harry enter the room at all.

\----

The following morning, you wake with the sun. Little sleep had happened in the past day but you feel refreshed regardless. The long hours you had put in the night before resulted in quite a bit of relevant information and three distinct methods for tackling Jankovic, each with its merits and its challenges. But you are feeling confident for your meeting with Arthur, at least you were last night. This morning, you need to eat your breakfast and review your notes before providing your supervisor with your planned course of action.

You lift yourself from the plush comfort of your bed, the biggest benefit of spending the night at the manor, and walk towards your desk, which now is a much more organized collection of research: three distinct piles with three hand-written mission plans upon each.

You pull the blanket along with you, cocooning yourself as you sit at the desk and review your plans.

The first is a traditional approach: the honey-pot. In Andrej’s personal history, he has displayed a clear preference for your physical features. And even more, he has had no steady partners, just a series of lovers, all of whom were affiliated with other men simultaneously. In your time at Kingsman, it had already become clear that the type of people you took down got enjoyment out of breaking more than just the law. 

Eggsy is the perfect partner for this plan. His flirtatious personality and social skills mean he can easily convince a group of people that you are a couple. With the gala at the hotel on Saturday, all it would take is a little skin and some well-placed winks on your end for Andrej to want to tempt you away from your handsome partner. And while you entertain Andrej’s attentions, Eggsy would be open to sneak into the depths of Andrej’s personal estate and gather what information was needed to take him down. Sure, this plan puts you right in the belly of the beast and therefore in the most direct line of danger, but it also gives you the best chance to adapt to new information and go with the flow. 

The second plan is significantly less risky but requires more planning. A covert invasion of his security detail and hijacking of his automated banking systems would provide you all the information you needed to tear down the entire network. With Merlin’s mirror, you could cut down power to the hotel, sneak into the basement offices undetected, and bug and download what you needed. With Merlin, this plan could be flawless, with you using your combat background to take down the guards and his tech skills ensuring a full system overhaul without a trace. You would still need to get into the hotel, and the gala would work as a good cover, but unlike the honeypot, your goal would be to blend in as much as possible. It may not be the most glamourous plan, but it would certainly be the most efficient, and not to mention the most intimate, sneaking through darkened corridors and keeping as close as possible to avoid detection.

And finally the third plan would require approaching Jankovic directly, posing as British investors seeking to hide funds overseas, hoping to utilize Jankovic’s existing network to hide quite a bit of money quickly. And you’d be willing to pay for the services. You need credentials, as Andrej is a skeptical man, but he is also not the type of man who can pass up a quick cash opportunity. You could approach him at the gala, enquire about his services, and find out much from the horse’s mouth, supplementing what he tells you with the information would be able to mirror from his phones once you had him in the room with you. And in this, Harry could truly sign. A master of the art of blending in among the oddest of crowds, Harry could easily pose as the financial head of your organization, partners in crime in the truest sense. You wouldn’t have to steal anything in this plan. Andrej would give it freely, though it would require near perfect coordination between you and Harry.

As you add notes to the margins of your stacks, you look over at the post-it Arthur left on your files yesterday: Regroup noon, tomorrow. If you don’t leave now, you will be late. You throw on yesterday’s suit, scoop up what papers you need and rush to Arthur’s office. 

The door is open when you arrive and Arthur is seated upon one of his couches, cutting into a perfectly roasted chicken breast as he beckons you forward. 

“Discover anything useful?” he says after a swallow. He lifts his cloth napkin to his lips and waves out the door behind you. Pushing past you, his assistant cruises inside and grabs his plate with a nod before leaving. 

Arthur waves a hand to the seat in front of him. You take your sit and go to speak, but before you can say a word, Arthur lifts a finger.

“Before you run me through the details, whom should I request be joining us for this briefing?” 

“Um…”

**Author's Note:**

> https://ardentmuse.tumblr.com/post/612680633692602368/summary-rogue-choices-is-an-interactive-fic-in


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